


Valvia Guardos

by LemonyButters



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bittersweet, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Supernatural Elements, crowns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonyButters/pseuds/LemonyButters
Summary: Werewolves were suppose to be extinct ever since the Great War between the First Men and the Supernaturals. A thousand years later, Craig has encounter a werewolf in his forest, injured and close to death.What happens when a regular human falls in love with a shape shifter.





	Valvia Guardos

**Author's Note:**

> * Warning * There are parts in this chapter that have explicit scenery.

 

**_Valvia Guardos = The Wolf of The Moon_ **

**_”We make peace with our enemies, not our friends.”_ **

 

——————————————————

“I am going to get you!”

Craig’s feet smash the ground deafeningly, stomping the wet dirt and terminating his gown—which his mother won’t be pleased with. Hands were soaring by his side to give him speed, and the wind beats his face like powder on a noble woman’s cheek. His mouth opens involuntarily; bugs in and out as long as he keeps his feet active. The wind gushes at him, pushing him backwards as he passes another set of trees. The nakedness of skin at the bottom of his sole, covered with the earth's mud, could barely keep up with the heaviness of the boy's weight but with the adrenaline inside of him, his mind says otherwise.

They always say he was the fastest boy they have known at his age.

It was the spark of dawn, yet the tree’s shadows made it feel like it was noon or late supper. These plants were gradually getting prominent the further his body lugs him and the ground less substantial. It was weird, considering that they haven’t experience rain in a month and the crops were dryer than ever. He trips for a moment, banging his feet on a branch that was poking out from the earth. It was like an elastic band finally letting go, the way Craig hurled over, his body defying gravity, sending him a couple of meters away. In response to this sudden burst, Craig hisses, and bites his lips to conceal the pain—carefully not screaming and busting his cover. Then, in less than a minute, he was up again and running.

He can hear his brother’s familiar voice calling out his name in worry, it was getting darker—a five year old should not be in the forest alone—neither an eight year old. Instead, the eight year old should follow his dad’s advice and stay in the castle, reading scrolls and laughing at servants. Deciding wives and bearing children—or what his dad use to say ‘ruling’ for he was the eldest son. But this kid had something else in mind.

Something much bigger.

It has gotten to a point where Craig wants to shove his shoes off and carry himself on his bare feet. The gadget was wearing him down because of the extra pound the mud made but he didn’t want to suffer from infections. Back in the castle, he sees what happens and how they were treated both by the disease and his people. He gulps, hoping that he can keep his reining wins.

There was a second time he tripped, fumbling down a small hill with leaves attaching themselves to his back. He passes a couple of rocks, all digging graves into him. He made a big sound when he hit the bottom and his legs were over his shoulders. He stayed, feeling those forest’s creatures engulf his body, knowing there was no trace of Kyle’s presence—probably went back home because he was afraid. He won’t blame him, the forest whispers naughty things.

He rests a dirty hand on his forehead and laugh. He laughs at the tingling feeling in his stomach. He laughs at how far he went for this. He laughs at how his father would react when he doesn’t see him in his room.

After his moment of happiness, he turns to his side, looking further into the mysterious arena, unseen to the naked eye. It was big, this forest, and very off limit yet alluring. He was never allowed pass the gates that guarded this beauty but father always bring prisoners in here for some odd reason. Craig always thought he was setting them free after they have won the war-a foolish thought-but he diminishes that conspiracy after their screams and the smoke that escalated in the late nights.

Craig was looking at the patch of mushrooms, how they shiver under the darkness—swaying to the tunes of the wind. He could sleep here if he wants, it was much more soothing than his room. Quiet, that’s all he ever exceed for.

But the quietness did not last long, a small howl came from his direction. Long and slow, it groans, terrifying Craig due to the fact that there was a sound accompanying his heart beat. Craig pushes his eyebrows together and then his body to the sound. His curiosity would get him killed was what Craig’s father always said and maybe, he was just right.

It sounded like someone-well an animal rather—was hurting, not a very pleasant sound. He pushes his hands pass a bunch of branches, where the noise was executed. After he got clearance, the figure comes into view and the object to that sound was a direwolf, a white wolf the size of an elephant. It was rare, the direwolves are said to be on the verge to extinction.

  
The wolf was aware of Craig’s uncovered entrance. Its mouth raises up in a defensive way and his eyes made connection with Craig’s as it growls. It was scared, that was not rocket science. But there was the prescience of pain in his big green eyes—pain coming from the spear struck in his chest, the wooden stick points to the heaven. Blood pour through its wound to get to any outside surface, it stained the white fur that shields this beast.

Craig gulps and moves forward.

“Hey there,” he spoke to the animal, “let me pull that thing out..okay.” His voice was shaky which the wolf took that as a weakness. It snaps at Craig’s arm, forcing the man to fall back on his butt.

The wolf revolves back to his previous position, its breath slower and slower every passing second. It was dying and in the need of some medical help. Craig got up and approaches it again, giving up was never an answer. He wanted to help this beast, he wanted to make it live again.

The wolf didn’t defend himself the second time, the energy have left his figure and gave Craig a limp-less body. Craig puts his hands out in front of him to offer as peace, but it didn’t matter, the wolf was ready to die.

Slowly, the twigs break under his feet and the sun peeks through the leaves. His eyes strain to his hands and his mouth closed shut. Without any clue or any consent, the wolf transforms—fur begins to contrast and his figure glowing shorter into a boy older than Craig. There was a rush of blond hair strolling down his back and his fangs that were over his lips were now covered by it. He holds the spear as his back elevates and whales.

Craig was frozen, yes, it was a fucking werewolf and he just saw it transformed in front of his eyes. Werewolves and witches and any other supernatural were all part of tales to make the children go to sleep once the parents were out of wine. They couldn’t exist—they shouldn’t exist. Yet, here he is, mounting over a boy who was once an extinct animal—a Direwolf—and now became a boy that looks like he traveled from the village.

The boy moans again, pulling on the weapon that strikes him and it gushed out blood. The screams snap Craig out of his daydream and he ran back to the werewolf’s side. His hands were shaking, he should run, was what he thought but he couldn’t. “Just lay here, I will find some herbs.” Craig takes off his coat and wraps it around the wound. The wolf looks at Craig, his hands resting by his side.

He opens his mouth, and produce the last words before he fell into unconsciousness. “Valvia guardos.”

 

——————

 

“The cut is healing up,” Craig converse, watching the blond boy stream the drink down his throat, his adam’s apple suffered the same fate. From here, you can still smell the platitudinous of milk, splattering on his cheeks. It has been two suppers since Craig found the wolf sprawled in the grass, close to death, arrow above his heart. Well, he didn’t know what he was suppose to do back then; telling his father was his greatest alternative but he declines that idea, figuring that he won’t believe him or if he did; he wouldn’t know what would happen to this shifter-superstitious things are never dealt with well. Craig instead, acquired food and drinks until the boy can get up and explain what is going on (especially the werewolf part). Now, it has been two days and Craig still have no clue about anything—except, the blond needs more food.

The boy stomps the cup on the ground and shakes his head like a dog, “and you are getting your energy back.”

“La vitas morias.” The blond answered back, rolling the empty container to Craig’s side. He swipes his extended arm over his mouth and smile—fangs and all. Craig notices that black arrows display itself on the blond’s skin the more he heals. There was one on his left eye and two over his shoulder. Maybe, it was the sign of a shape shifter.

“What kind of language is that,” Craig wonders to himself, he never heard any of father’s friends speak those words and father have many bilingual friends, “I suppose you don’t speak English?”

“Viadies dubej ebdb?” The blond questions, tilting his head to the side which made Craig brings his eyebrows together. “Ur…do you..” he points outward, “speak,” he points to his mouth, “English?” He felt dumb, really dumb.

The boy stands up and touches Craig’s forehead, there was a minute of silence and then the hands were suddenly off. The werewolf smiles, “Tweek.”

“Tweek?”

Tweek drops in front of Craig’s face, cuffing his chubby cheeks, “my name is Tweek. Yours?” The accent was weird, also, it was neither Southern or Northern. Where did this guy come from?

Craig pulls Tweek’s palms off his skin, “urg..Craig Tucker, I am the prince to the north.” Tweek’s smile brightens and places a hand on his bandages. “Thank you, prince of the north.”

Tweek sat back down, and demolishes the rest of the remains of food. “Where-“ Craig gulps, “where are you from? We don’t often see a werewolf—I mean we don’t ever see a werewolf.”

“I don’t know. I woke up and was chased by guards. I can’t remember anything, just my name and my objective.” Tweek licks his fingers and offer some milk to Craig, which the raven head holds out his hands to reject.

“You must have come from the south,” Craig concludes, “there is a tale where people would just suddenly appear south of the wall and they were..irregular.” The irregular bit made Tweek frown, a regret from Craig’s mouth.

“There is a wall?”

“Yeah, a huge one. Reach from the oak tree in the north and the palm tree in the south. Said to keep out pirates!” Craig laughs but he stops when he sees Tweek’s expression.

“That’s weird,” Tweek whispers, raising his back. He growls and touches his wound, “suppose the north wouldn’t except a werewolf walking on its ground, too. Thank you for this and for not killing me the moment you saw me.”

“Just not my style,” Craig said, shrugging his shoulder, “you outta stay put until the wound heals.

“They’ll come after me if I take a rest, I need to head west, pass the Blood Sea.” Tweek once again, came face to face with Craig, “I owe you my life prince of the north, never shall I forget this day to the seven gods. Whenever you need me, scream “Valvia Guardos” and I’ll be there.”

 

——————

 

 

“We should be fighting them! Not marrying Craig to a Southern princess!”

“We have already made the arrangement years ago, the wedding will continue.”

“Don’t you care about your house?! Don’t you care about your people?! A man was kidnap for fucks sake! We should raise war not surrender.”

“War is not the answer, my child, we must wait. Maybe, we can conclude an agreement.”

Craig was leaning against the chessmen door, anticipating for Kyle to constrict a perceptible exit. It’s been his third outburst ever since the wedding was planned last week—well, he was set to marry her when he was thirteen and now since he is eighteen, the deal is now concrete. Kyle was always edgy with this blueprint.

Their shouting continue, transparent to the outside listeners. He hates it, especially going in while they are arguing. Kyle’s anger is easily obtain, and his father is getting affected by it now. In a way, he kind of sympathize with Kyle’s frustration, the Marshs, a house very loyal to theirs, were rob by a Southerner and their heir was kidnaped. But Kyle must know by now the city won’t go after a lowlife house and their kid, the most a war would start by was if it was one of them. His begging is not going to make any difference.

Craig taps his fingers on the wooden surface, drawing circles over and over. The smooth brick tickles the tiny hairs on his epidermis. He blows slowly out in his mouth and intake a lot of air. He tried to depress the air out to create those signals that guards use to make to call for others but no sound came out, he wonders how they do it.

Then, there was squealing and the broad doors open. A bush of red hair walks out, making eye contact with Craig—face unreadable, eyes wide—before turning on his heels and walking out the other end. Their relationship was spoil—not like the sibling complex that most family have—but it was much gruesome. To the point where he thinks that Kyle would be the one to kill him—not that he shows it but he just knows. Hypothetically, it could be the fact that Kyle is the son of another mother and there’s some sort of competition for their dad’s love the older they get. Or just, they never really communicate, different interests separate them.

“Morning father.” Craig yawns, his feet entering the throne room. The sound skirts over the polish floor, bouncing of the pillars that hold up the ceiling. In the further end of the room, was the mighty chair, gold was its colour and its back pointed out. This was the biggest room in the castle—and the place where his wedding would be, the feast of the heavens and gods watching down as he name his bride.

“I don’t think good is a right word to put it.” His father shrugs, “I hope you are still on for the wedding.”

“Whatever keep the Southern troops out of our territory, my lord.” His father laughs, making Craig’s lips travel upward. The marriage is just an alliance between the two kingdoms to join them. They have been at war for so long, it’s time for some truce. Marrying the prince of north to the princess in the south will finally end this disease.

“God, you’ve grown,” the king held his belly, he was getting fatter the more the years rest on him, his hair has grown so long that you can barely see his face, “remember when you use to not be interested in this at all, always in that stupid forest. And Kyle, well, Kyle being respectful towards this.”

“Taking their heir and holding him hostage while the north watches doesn’t seem pleasing to him.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t, and I promise him we will get him back.”

Craig didn’t really believe his words, not because of his father saying he’ll put in effort but the fact that Stan would return. From what he have heard, Stan is better dead than alive for what the Southerns are doing to him, “so why did you call me here?”

His father laughs, he lands his hands beside him and gets up, “follow me, my child.” They walk behind the throne, a small room that was brutally made in one of the wars father had. They couldn’t build it back, the castle is made from a rare material that was lost in the world during their ancestors’ rein—the First Men per-say. Father wanted to at least cover it up with steel or concrete, but mother was crazy about it.

The torches follow a sequence that leads deeper into the ground. There were stairs that were too old and breaks under Craig’s feet. At the very end, his father takes a torch and enters the room. After what felt like fifty stairs, they reached a tomb of Craig’s late uncle, and a sword sleeping above it.

“This is the twin of a powerful sword-Vilagiesgi, mounted by the First Men. Its steel can kill anything in its path.” The sword was a dark material and had ancient words written on the interior. The handle was gold, snake figures flowing beside it.

“I can’t,” Craig exhales, he strokes the handle and saw his father watching him, “I can’t take this.”

“But you must,” his father nods, he swifts the torch to his back and walks around the table, “it has been given to me by my father before I wed your mother, and his father before that. Take the sword and protect this country. It is your time, mine has ended.” He rests his hands over his son’s shoulders, the torch fire glazing his skin.

“Where is the other one?” Craig asks, swinging the sword left and right. It was nice, light and was really sharp. If this has a twin, imagine how powerful both of them in one hand would be.

“Lost to the wind for all I know.”  
He puts the sword back on the tomb, his fingers trailing the blade.

“There will come a time, my son, where I won’t be there and you would have to take charge and protect our family.”

 

 

——————

 

Token loathes when the ribbons come, he loathes when there was a gathering of people before a ship—the flags soaring above its property, he loathes it when his mother compresses his hands, hoping that her son doesn’t get anointed. He loathes it when he sees the poor moaning in each other’s arms. He loathes it. All of it, every single detail of this moment—including the weather, including the time, including him. The two guards, from the house Cartman, unroll their scrolls and clear their throats. These individuals were tall and buff, the golden coat made them look wealthy. Token envies them, he means, who wouldn’t? They probably have five meals a day, nice wine and really good baths. Not living on the dumps of the street hoping that king Cartman would spear them food. The crowd was silent, you can hear a coin drop miles away, his mother shakes beside him.

The south is the worst place to live.

“Twirl Winner.” There was mumble in the audience. The name made some people stiff, for the person it belongs to was known. Others let out a sigh of relief, the name does not belong to them. Then, the crowd shifts and a boy no less than 13 came up, he holds his shirt tightly in his hands. He turns, trying to find the mother who fainted, tears whelming up in his eyes. Then, the guards drag him out of view.

“Clyde Donavon.” Token’s eyes shifts to the people beside him. The bunch separated, making way for a person, a chosen one. The brunette boy, a little chubby on his cheeks, walks up while his father pats him on the back and his mother on her knees, praying. Token knows him, a butcher’s boy, always smiling at customers; begging people to buy whatever they hunter that night. He balls his fists in his pants, shivering as if he came out of the water up north. He stands next to the announcer, back facing the crowd and disappear.

“That’s all for today.” The guard yells, “there would be two more pickings before we sail.” The guards got down from the stage and back into the ship. Then, the silence became history. Woman—mothers were screaming for their lost sons, others wrap their arms around the weeping, understanding their pain. The rest went home, for tomorrow would be the same thing.

His mother hugs him, his shirt getting wet from her tears. 

 

 

“Eat up.” His mother said, washing the dishes, “I don’t want you to starve yourself..”

“It’s the same thing over and over again,” Token said, looking at the little dead animal, its mouth open and its eyes dig out, “aren’t you tired of these rats?”

Token’s mother turns, her hair tucked up in a bun and her shirt dirty like the streets. “I rather eat rats than lose you.” Token observes his mother’s lip quivers. She is a wreck, ready to burst. Ever since they took his father, she has never been the same; they have never been the same. They became richer (his dad use to send them some money every month, it was plenty-it did not last long) but less stable. Now they are living off the clothing his mother makes.

It has been two years since the body of his father was return to them, two years and Token remember the day as if it was yesterday.

“If I go to the wall, I would raise money for you—for us. We can move up in court, eat proper food.”

“You will not go there!” The mother yells, her head shaking—her eyes gushing out her head, “I will not lose you like I lost your father!”

Token looks back at his stew, his finger nails digging in his palm. “I won’t die, I promise you that. I am not him.”

“You will die Token, I swear by all seven gods, you will die.”

 

Morning came, the roster talks in the sunlight. There was a slight breeze coming from the hole in the wall and people from the market yell out their prices. Token got up, slowly not ready for the day to begin, and went to the room to take a bath. He looks in the tub, mole lining the edges and water dark as the mole.

He sighs, empty the container and takes a bucket to fetch new water.

The walk to the river was far and was filled with the Southern’s guards. They all look smug; watching people struggle with their lives as they live healthy ones. One of the guards grabs a woman, touching her in places which made her scream. No one can do anything, they were the powerful ones here.

“That poor Donovan kid,” a woman whispers to her friend, her hands covering her mouth, “a sad sight to see indeed.” Token looks at their objective. There was a crowd, circling a rope hanging from the second floor of a small shop, a very familiar shop. He moves closer, more people whispering in the air. Then he saw it, a woman hanging from the rope, eye still open and mouth turned upside down. She was so..pale, the oxygen left her head and her eyes were red. Tears were dried on her skin. It was Clyde’s mom all right.

When he got home the first thing he did was hug his mother, hug her so tight that it would take the gods so much power to separate them.

 

“I want you to get some Clams for me today okay,” his mother chuckles, sowing a dress. It was blue, puffy at the end and lace at the top.

“That’s a little bit expensive, isn’t it?” He asks, watching his mother sings and shake her body left and right.

“And so? We should celebrate, you are not getting pick.” They survive two name calls, meaning that the last one is today before they buckle all the kids and send them off.

“We never celebrate this early,” Token wonders, smiling to himself when his mother hits him.

 

  
“Clams for a coin , Clams for a coin.” Token shifts pass the group of hungry people, a bucket of red tomatoes dangling from his hand. He was wearing a nice hat, and a wheat in his mouth. His shirt was brand new, holes in some invisible parts. The sun shoots rays at his skin, making water pour down his forehead. “Some on the right.” He said, handing two coins to the girl. She smiles and takes it, giving him products in return. “Clams for a coin, Clams for a coin.”

“Have you heard, the royal wedding is tomorrow. A Southerner marrying a Northerner? How tragic.”

“I hope king Cartman have a plan to take over the north, it would be nice to have those kids dead.” The lady shush the other and chuckle, sad to wish misfortune on kids like that. Token conveys his movements pass them, he gazes up the stairs and see the royal castle, a dream he once had. After, he strolls back down to his home.

The second his door opens, his mother was before him, on her knees praying. Token sat beside her and follow her movements. “To all seven gods, make our journey fill with happiness. Make our enemies accept the light and our friends have wealth.”

Token nods, chewing the wheat in his mouth.

“Please, seven gods don’t make them choose my son.” Was what she said last, her fluid dropping down the skin beside her nose. Token hugs her, creasing his hands over her hair. “They won’t.” Was what the hush words he spoke before kissing her. His lips linger in her hair, “I will not leave you.”

 

The bells ring and the people gather to join once more. It was livelier this time around, the last day of this tragic thing. His mother was holding his hands, again, though this time he was holding her tighter. They call a couple of names and down to the last one, Token started to face his direction home, his mother following shortly after. He survived it, he survived another year. His heart leaps and he couldn’t help but have a wide grin on his face. It is disappointing to not have money from the wall to help her, but he will find a job this year..for sure.

But it wasn’t finish. The guards never stepped down and the crowd didn’t dismantle. They said four names, they always say four names.

“Token Black.” Was what they read out, the last word from the scroll. Token’s heart freeze, his mother was motionless. “Token Black.”

“Run.” His mother whispers, pushing him, “run, Token!”

So he did but he didn’t get far. There were guards blocking him. They tie him up and send him to the ship. “Mother!” He screams, watching they hold her back with no morals in them. They shove him towards the ship, people parting as he walks down. “Let him go! Let my son go!” She cried, whipping her hands in their faces. They didn’t bulge, which is laughable, she was an ant to a tiger.

“Mother!”

 

——————

 

 

“So tomorrow is the big day, giving your cousin to a Northerner,” Cartman cuts his meat and looks up to his father, his eyelashes dance, “I hope you are sure that this is the right thing.”

His father puts down his cup, the wine spills over the glass’s edges from the hit. “It would be nice if we have an alliance with the Northerns, they have more resources after all.”

“We can just simply attack them,” the meat travels along Eric’s teeth, and he tears it into bits. The sound of forks and knives cover up the quietness.

“We could,” his father nods, “but we both know that they have more houses backing them up than the south.”

Cartman watches his father clasped the cup up and jug down the stale wine, the red liquid slips on his chin which he wipes away with his sleeve, “more wine, please!”

The door opens, bringing in some of the torches’ light. A man with his hair covering his face, which was bruised with the colour of purple, came in. He shakes, bouncing the chains along his feet and drags those long pants on the floor. He gazes at Cartman with trembling hands and bows.

Cartman’s father stop chewing.

“What the hell did you do to him?”

“Nothing huge,” Cartman cuts his meat, “he is still functional and all. I suppose the north doesn’t want him back since all their efforts weren’t—“ he laughs, “—efforts, am I right, Marsh?”

“Y-yes, your grace.” Stan weeps, making Cartman’s lips spread across his cheeks. His father raises an eyebrow at his son, “I hope you kidnaping him is not gonna forge a war when we are trying to make an alliance!” Stan leaps to Eric’s father and pour the red water in his cup. The man turns to Stan and scrunches up his nose, “why does he reek?”

“Well,” Cartman swings his knife around, “I don’t have clothes for him, so I used the skin of his deceased. Warmer than most.”

“You are a mad kid,” his father revolts, getting up. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop playing your stupid games. Craig is getting married to Bebe, if they somehow find out you have this—this creature and we are in their territory, we will get killed!”

Cartman lifts up his eyes and curls his finger over each other. His father stops, and looks down himself. Blood was on his shirt, dripping from his nose. He lifts a finger, feeling the liquid clump over it.

“Drink some more wine, father, I think you need to demolish your thirst.”

His father glances at the drink and sees how Cartman’s is untouched. Then, the old man falls to the floor gasping. Stan shakes more than before, his fingers were so numb and his head was light, he could faint. Cartman laughs, a smile so wide and frighten. “W-what..did you do?”

“You’re getting too old father, the people are beginning to lose hope,” Cartman smacks a meat in his mouth, “send ravens to my lords. Say, my father have been poisoned by a Northern troop.” A soldier nods and exit.

He turns to Stan, who was empirically spinning like a maniac. “Well, aren’t you hungry?” Cartman’s teeth shines, he points to his dad, “supper is ready.”

 

 

——————

 

 

“I can’t wait till I get married,” Ruby looks out the window, she rotates to face Craig, her nice smile on her features, “I hope big brother takes me down the aisle.”

Craig laughs while he puts on her dress, “you are too young to be thinking that.”

“Well, you weren’t young when you decided to marry Bebe!” Her curls flop on her face as she jumps.

“I suppose so, but I won’t give you to anyone just yet.” He hugs her, making her giggle. All of a sudden she stopped and raised up from his arms. Her expression displays hate at an object. Craig follows her glare and sees Kyle at the door, his hands behind his back and face down to the floor.

“I’ll be right back, big brothers talk.” He said, Ruby didn’t let go at first, her eyes stuck on Kyle who was trying so hard not to meet her gaze.

“He’s not our brother,” she grumbles, finally letting go, “he’ll never be our brother.”

 

“She hates me, doesn’t she?” Kyle questions, fiddling with his gown. Craig closes his mouth and listens to the bird chirping. Of course Ruby hates him, didn’t you see the glare she gave him. “I try my best to get on her good side but all she sees me as is a bastard.” Bastard are people who aren’t related to the princes and princesses but live in the castle.

“You are kinda,” Craig answered which made Kyle sulks, “but you need to give her time, she is still young.”

“I suppose.” He clears his throat, “I just want to say, I only want to see you happy. I know we don’t have the best of relationships but..you are still my br—someone really close to me.”

“Brother.”

“What?”

“I’m still your brother, no matter what Ruby said, no matter what mother said. You are a Tucker, even if you don’t have my blood completely.” He puts his hands behind him, they walk pass the forest that Kyle and him used to play tag near.

“You are making it hard for me to hate you,” Kyle chuckles, walking slower. Craig’s back was his view, always Craig’s back.

“Then don’t. Today will be the day where we demolish our wars; ours and against the Southerns.” Kyle looks at the ground, his face drops and Craig almost curse himself, they were having such a great moment. They pass by people who were farming, “morning, your graces!” Craig waves a hand.

“You love him,” Craig asks, putting down his hands. “That Marsh boy, you love him.”

Kyle was silence but that was the best answer Craig got. “I don’t intend on telling anyone.” It’s forbidden to have feelings for the same sex, it’s hard to produce a heir that way. People are burn alive because of that—princes are more prominent.  
“I—“

Kyle was cut off by horses running up towards the gates. Banners fly by it, red and gold symbolizing the king in the south. The villagers drop their things and rush towards the attraction. “He’s here already,” Kyle mumbles when the doors open and a man came out. His belly giggles when he takes his steps. A man, in armour head to toes, follows him. 

“A bit early, are we?” Craig accused, bowing down to Cartman. Cartman turns, “aye, I wanted to meet the prince as soon as I can.”

Craig looks behind him at the guards, after seeing someone’s presence absent, “your father…”

“Couldn’t make it, sadly, very sick.” Cartman snaps his fingers and the guard beside him gets his bags from the cart. “I hope you don’t mind me this early.”

“Not at all,” Craig laughs.

“I’ll show you to where you stay,” Kyle grants, talking to the guard and Cartman. Cartman felt his accompany shiver and smile.

“Don’t worry, a prince should not be doing this kind of work. We will all walk to the castle and wait for a more proper servant to guide us.”

 

——————

 

Kenny was surrounded by sharks, the count was at least ten. He can feel the animals circling him, trying to defy what he is. There was a knot between his hands and the wire that ties to the ground of the sea. The water was flowing through his nose, burning his insides as if they were on fire. It hurts, as hell, and it’s worse when he opens his mouth as his organs scream.

Other than the water rushing in his ears, he can hear the sound of the cheers; Kenny! Kenny!  
The sharks came closer, smelling their meal. They were really hungry—haven’t been feed for two weeks. It would have been harder if they cut him, making his blood combine with the elements of water. Though, they didn’t, and he sits there waiting for them to approach him, swallow him until he can’t feel anymore.

But it didn’t happen. The sharks came closer, the sound of them clamping their mouths together was the only sound Kenny heard, now. In a minute it was over, the tunes of the sea came back and Kenny was raised up.

“I, Jimmy Valmer, last of the fire breathers, announces Kenny McCormick; the last of the First Men.”

The people cheer, razing their hands up to the sun to give them powers. Kenny looks around him, the water was no longer its nice sky blue colour, it was dark red and the fish that demands him were on their back; dead. Jimmy looks at him, his eyes shinning with hope and pride. He believes in him. They all did. Kenny huffs to regain his strength, he looks outward, open his mouth and say, “I am Kenny, follow me and we will take back our land. Follow me and we will get both north and south. Follow me and we will destroy the wall and kill every single human that lives. Follow me, Supernaturals!”

The wolves howl, the vampires nod, the witches cheer. Kenny looks around him, feeling the fire in his stomach builds.

 

 

——————

 

 

There were junked words being exchange and roars of laughter. The smell of stale alcohol and roasted pork fills the night sky. It haven’t been this crowded or energetic since the retaking of the north by Craig’s father from the Southern troops. Almost a decade it has been and even as a little kid, Craig remembers the feast. Rival houses were hugging each other, woman dangling from strangers’ arms. Yes, the night was young.

Craig sat in front of everyone, his back shading the wooden chair. He looks to his right and saw Kyle clapping at the party, his eyes drunk with liquor and his mouth with drool. Further more down, his father sits, swinging his red glass and combing his moustache. He was huge, the king, one of the tallest reigning man.

“Your grace.” Craig turns his head to the producer of those words, a short man with leather clothing and beefy blue eyes. Craig raises his head to continue. “May we take a walk?” He asks and Craig nods.

“Nice day isn’t it?” The man walks with both hands behind his back, “nice day for a wonderful walk.”

“What do you want Lord Greyhound?” Craig asks, passing some flowers. The lord meets his eyes, “I’m sorry, your grace.” And before he know, he was being tied up and his eyes were covered.

Kyle watches how Craig exit the door and he meets Cartman’s wide windows to his soul. They were brown and it wasn’t a nice colour on his features, it made him look innocent, loyal. Which everyone knows that it is not true. Kyle shakes his head, he promised himself to be mature for Craig’s wedding. It’s his day, Kyle can seek revenge after.

The dinning hall dropped in volume after the prince leaves, Cartman stood up. Some of the Southern troops stand by the only exit, their shoulders aligned with each other. Kyle shifts in his seat, he looks at Ruby across from him, she was chirping with a guard.

“Wonderful, wonderful feast.” Kyle feels a Southern guard stands behind him. Actually, he notices that every Northern guard has a Southern guard and questions when did Cartman’s army double in size. “I wish my father was here to see, but unfortunately, he’s dead.”

His father leans in front of him to grab grapes, “dead? You said he wasn’t feeling good.”

“Ah, you Northerns are so kind, so trustworthy.” Cartman brings out his blade and stand behind their father. He flicks the knife around the king’s throat, who tenses up, and curls his hands around his hair. The Northern guards got up, proceeding to the threat, but was blocked by the Southerns, “that’s why it is so easy to take your lands.” The blade ran across his throat and blood flushes out. It was like cuting cake the way the blade slices. That was Kyle’s clue to get up, he strikes his knife in the soldier’s throat and leaps over the table.

He looks around, trying to find Ruby, once more. She wasn’t with a guard from their keep. Two of the enemy guards blocks her—grabbing her by the clothes. He races for her, getting a sword along the way.

“Kyle!” She screams, “Kyle, help me, please!”

Kyle ran across the hall, he curses at the fact that this place was huge. People around him were being slice to pieces—his own men. He couldn’t believe this, how could anyone attack their host?

A sword was swing at him, he ducks to prevent the attack, hitting the tip of his own to the weakpoint in the armour and gets up again. He lunches over the table, throwing the weapon that he had to the guard’s face, hoping that it hits. Luckily, it did, and the man falls to the floor, giving Ruby freedom for her to run to Kyle. The Northerns were being defeated and he needs to get her out of here even if it means risking his life. She was close to him, her face wet, hair trailing behind her. He held out his hands for her and she her’s.  
Ruby fell backwards when Kyle caught her, an arrow shot between her forehead. Her eyes looked up, blood leaping down from the stem to her mouth. His world stops, his heart stops. The sound of knives and swords became distant. He doesn’t know what to do.

Kyle traces the direction of the arrow and saw Cartman’s trademark on his face. Something pings in his heart, it makes his skin boil and his hairs stand up. It angered him, no, that was a weak word to describe this feeling.

Kyle collects a sword from a dead man and races to Cartman, only one thought on his mind. The faceless man came in front of him and deflects his weapon in one blow. Kyle yells in fury and slices his sword at him, but the guy was quicker and faster. He dances on his toes, blocking all Kyle’s attempts. Then, he hits Kyle in the face, making him collapse backwards.

The sword falls on him, making Kyle flip over and recapture the steel. He swings at the man, hard, getting the helmet off of him. Kyle charges again, seeing the man turn around and stop his movements. Their face collided, Kyle weakens his grip, his eyebrows up. “Stan?” He whispers, seeing Stan twitch and push Kyle to the ground.

”Kill him,” Cartman yells, putting his arrow between his bow and shooting at other people, “kill him, Stan!”

”You are alive,” Kyle spoke in the distance between them, Stan raises his sword, his hands holding it steadily.

The doors burst open and more Northern troops arrive. Magic overlaps the castle, and the Southerns were hugely outnumbered. It was their turn to be slaughtered, cut into thousand off pieces, blood pouring from their body endlessly. Seeing the downfall of his men, Cartman grabs Stan and flee, giving Kyle some time to breathe. He makes his head rest on the ground, his heart racing fast.

There’s just too many things happening at once.

Shelly comes above him, her hands on her hips, armour silver as ever, “I knew the moment that I saw their banners that it was trouble.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Team North or Team Kenny? Ahah, I was thinking of making this just a one shot but I couldn’t force myself—I need to continue! Though, I am afraid that this is just gonna be bittersweet fic. I plan on doing a time travel AU next.


End file.
